You had turned up with a fresh bruise

A navy blue palimpsest on a glass jaw

Seaside tears trailed down from eyes

Half closed through fear and swelling

 

You had brought the Webley .22 rifle

Given to you by your maths teacher

And a pack of bullets stolen from him

Alongside a hip flask of Bristol Cream

 

As usual we barely spoke of dullness

Of substances and fractured bones

Instead dreaming of space shuttles

And the desolate surface of the moon

 

We picked through the urban jungles

Alleyways and long afternoon utopias

Until between the sights the ginger tom

Crawled furtively in search of its own prey

 

A thud and crunch and the creature lay

Shot twice through the eye and heart

A splintered mass of fur and sinews

Strangled by a child’s primal scream

 

I found you sat by the poor cat’s side

Elbow deep in viscera and victory

Naming the parts as you tore them out

Crying and laughing and screaming

 

That night you sent the torch signal

Three flashes for he’s drunk again.